Face of a Stranger, Face of a Friend

What follows is a dream transcribed. I have no idea, none at all, if any of this is true in fact, true in essence, or quite false in all regards and simply the product of wishful thinking.  But for what it is here it is.

See a city enjoying a pleasant afternoon, moderately warm beneath pillow clouds floating across a blue sky.  See people, shapes of people moving along their way, some in haste, others strolling slowly, the sense of dense population.  Look at the buildings, take note of their age, the close spacing, how they are crowd one into the other leaving a sense of an old city where every square foot has a history, a story to tell.  Such was the setting for this dream that perhaps was more than a dream. 

I walked into that city, somehow, I wandered across it for quite some time it seemed.  In time I became a bit tired, I was ready to rest for a bit before continuing on.  As dreams will do soon enough it provided me a place to rest, an outdoor café surrounded by a decorative wrought iron railing, the furniture worked of the same materials.  I entered, do not recall ordering at all but found myself with a large china cup of the rich coffee characteristic of the European taste.  I looked around, and discovered the place was all but full, only one chair remained open, and it was across a table from another man sipping from a cup such as mine.  I asked his permission to share the table with a gesture, he granted the permission with another gesture, I had the sense we shared no common word between us.  For what seemed a long time we sat across the table from each other in silence, each of us in our thoughts as we sipped the coffee.

The afternoon wore on, but for some reason I wasn’t in any hurry to leave the spot, it seemed I was waiting for something.  I watched the people, looked around at the horizon, decided I must be in Moscow, I thought I recognized the turrets of the Kremlin in the distance.  I looked at the man from time to time even as he did me.  He was a handsome man, perhaps mid thirties, blue eyes the color of the arctic sky, very blonde, both his hair and his full beard.  Make him 5’10” or so, a solid build, the sense of a restrained strength.  His hands were calloused, a tradesman of some sort, he worked with his hands.  His glance was guarded even though at odd times probing and intense.  There was no sense of threat, but still he was as casually curious about me as I was about him.  It seemed he also was waiting for something, he often glanced behind me to where of the café’ opened onto the sidewalk. 

There came a moment when the man’s face changed, his eyes lit like stars, and he smiled.  As he smiled I understood why he wore the beard, there were scars on his face, the beard covered them.  Even as I took in this fact I felt a hand on my shoulder.  Now you would think feeling a touch in such a place would be startling, a moment of fear, but there was the exact opposite sense to this touch, it carried warm and safe, gentle. 

I looked up, and beheld my muse Alex standing beside me, it was her hand on my shoulder.  She was dressed as I’ve seen her before, blue jeans, a simple blouse beneath a colorful quilted jacket worn open, her winter boots, it would seem the afternoon was much warmer than the morning had been.  She was looking at the man, her face that soft smile of hers so enchanting when you are in her focus.  The man’s smile moderated, he glanced at me for just long enough to nod and then stood.  Alex squeezed my shoulder, and then walked forward to stand beside him, taking his arm in hers. 

As they walked away arm in arm Alex turned for just a moment to smile at me bright as the sun, and the words arrived in my head, words in a language I don’t know but yet understood so perfectly. ”This is my man, I love him, and he loves me.”  For a moment her glance became hopeful, as if she sincerely hoped I would fully understand her meaning, and then she turned away, and they were soon enough out of sight.  I can remember the full sensation of what those words left in my heart now just as well as when I awakened moments after the dream ended.  I remember how happy they made me, the sense of relief they brought to me.  I remember thinking she’ll be ok, she’s safe, she’s home, I don’t need to worry for her now. It was such a warm feeling, so very full of peace and joy.

Now, you might say that of course this was all just wishful thinking, an impossible love releasing me, a happy ending manufactured.  And perhaps it was, I don’t know.  But there are two anomalies to that thought that have withstood full examination by light of day.  The first was his face, more detailed than any face I’ve ever constructed from imagination, far more detailed down to the very frequency reflected from his eye, his thoughts did not form in the same symbols I use, he and I are sons of a different land and language, a different culture.  And the second thing I can’t really explain?  Even though I’m a bit taller than he it dawned on me that even seated I always saw his face as though I were looking slightly up at him, and he down at me, from exactly the same angle as Alex would allowing for the difference in their heights as they walked away. 

 So you tell me: was it real?